Chapter eleven - Beatrice

Beatrice lay on the rough pallet, fretting. Her throat felt rough after that awful purging. She had sipped some more water to try to wash away the nasty taste and soothe her sore throat, but it was still difficult to swallow. She was exhausted, and yet she was unable to sleep. How could she have been  so stupid? She had panicked, like a brainless twit. The man hadn't meant her any harm. He had been trying to prevent her from hurting herself. If he hadn't acted so quickly, well, she hated to think what might have happened. And how did she repay him? She pressed him for answers and made him so uncomfortable he dashed out the door.

If only she had curbed her tongue. Reigned in her curiosity. But no. Mentioning his injuries had sparked a reaction she told herself she should have expected. He was obviously a strong man, trying to remake his life after a tragedy. And what does she do? Remind him of what must have been a horrid, devastating time in his life. The man couldn't escape fast enough.

It was obviously a painful, difficult subject. His scars were extensive. His injuries must have been disabling. And yet he seemed to have overcome his limitations. The damage didn't seem to interfere with his mobility. For a big man, he moved about with surprising agility and purpose. His only true handicap was his inability to speak, although the man wasn't completely mute. He could make some sounds. He certainly could snore. But, unfortunately, actual words seemed to be beyond his scope of abilities. And now, thanks to her frenzied panic, their only means of communication was shattered.

Beatrice rolled up onto one elbow and frowned at the bits of slate littering the floor by the clothes chest. The mess was completely out of place here in this tidy, organized room. Guilt prodded her conscience. She couldn't simply leave it to Gilbert... Mr. Lourson... to clean up her mess. Determined to do something to atone for her earlier blunder, she rose and moved to kneel beside the chest.

Beatrice eyed the books piled there. She yearned to pick one up and read. She had always had an affinity for literature, but she was almost afraid to touch these as she recalled the reverence Gilbert had used when setting them aside. They must be very precious to him. Each one was leather bound and well worn, embossed with gold lettering across the cover, some faded with age and handling but still legible. Titles like Gulliver's Travels and Robinson Crusoe she immediately recognized as beloved favorites. She had often read them for her own enjoyment. She'd also read them aloud to her nephew and nieces. The children adored hearing the stories and often begged for more. A smile tugged at her lips at the thought.

A man who treasured books was almost unheard. Neither her father nor brother ever read anything simply for the pleasure of reading. It was her mother who found great enjoyment in disappearing between the pages of a book, and she passed that love of literature down to Beatrice. She decided she would study them more closely after she cleaned up the broken bits of slate.

Cautiously, she picked up the largest pieces and stacked them in a pile. Now, if only she could locate a broom. With this idea in mind, she climbed to her feet and began a search about the room. It took several minutes of scaling the perimeter of the room before she finally noticed the broom standing beside the lone stool at the table. As she moved to retrieve it, her eye was drawn to the beautiful little cupid sitting there. She leaned closer, marveling at the fine detail and lifelike appearance. It really was a masterpiece. A work of art sculpted by a truly skilled artisan. What a marvelous dichotomy this man was. One would never guess a man of his massive size and rugged appearance was capable of creating such beauty.

It was then she heard voices echoing from outside. The words were indistinguishable, but the tone was unmistakably loud, angry, and strident. That couldn't be Gilbert. But who else would be out there? Beatrice moved to the door and cautiously eased it open. She peaked around the edge and softly gasped in shock.

She saw Gilbert first as he stood in profile to her, near a hand pump in the middle of the yard. But it wasn't his massive form that drew her shocked gaze. Across the open area facing him, three men sat on horseback. The presence of the rotund figure in the center had her sucking in a gasp and ducking back behind the door in terror.

What was he doing here? Blood turned to ice in her veins. Pressure built behind her eyes until it began to pound in her skull like a drum. She was transfixed by the sight of Mr. Narwhal's broad back. Her whole body began to quake with pure terror. She was so focused on her fear that she barely heard the words the beastly man was practically screeching.

"I know he took her, Daimler. He kidnapped my fiancée."

Outraged denial trembled at her lips. That was a heinous lie. How dare that monster claim she belonged to him. She definitely was not now, nor would she ever be, his fiancée. The quick denial nearly leaped to her lips. But the idea of drawing unwanted attention to herself held her back. That was the last thing she should do. She would only place herself back in Mr. Narwhals greedy clutches. Not only would he force her to return to the village with him, but he would likely insist Sheriff Daimler arrest Gilbert for kidnapping. She couldn't allow that. That was no way to repay her hero for his noble rescue. But what was she to do? Mr. Narwhal would find her here, and then, what?

Her gaze slid back to Gilbert. The big man stood there, as still as a marble statue. He was so still, he barely breathed. His stare burned with intense dislike, his ire focused entirely on the blustering Narwhal. Beatrice could almost find sympathy for the oblivious merchant. He had no idea of the danger he was courting. Rather like a pudgy little dog yapping at a bear.

It took her a moment to realize Gilbert was making a quick, furtive flipping gesture behind his back. She took a quick panicked peek at the others, but they didn't seem to notice. She deduced it was due to the way Gilbert stood, his hand partially hidden by his body. As she came to this realization, he did it again. At first, she didn't understand what he was doing. Was it a nervous tick, or was he doing that on purpose?

Then it occurred to her that this was the same movement that he had used earlier when he wanted her to back up so he could enter the kitchen. He had to be trying to tell her something. Desperately, she struggled to puzzle out his intent. Surely, he must mean to communicate something of importance. Then he repeated the gesture. This time, he also tilted his head down until his hair fell forward, covering his eyes. It was only an instant before he lifted his chin, causing the mass to slide back in place, his eyes still intently focused on the men.

Suddenly, she understood. He was trying to tell her she should go back inside and hide. Just where and how, she had no idea, but she was quite willing to comply. She nodded her understanding and carefully pushed the door shut. Wringing her hands nervously, she stood in the middle of the room, scanning the place for a viable hiding spot. The sleeping pallet was out. Far too obvious. The table was far too open. The clothes chest was large enough, barely. Then, her gaze wandered to the far end of the room and discovered another door she hadn't noticed before. This one was so dark with age that it practically disappeared into the stone surrounding it. No wonder she hadn't noticed it on her previous scan of the room.

Without a second thought, she hurried across the room. It wasn't until she was standing there that she noticed how truly massive the door was. Made up of rough planks that were held together by two horizontal boards, the whole thing dwarfed her petite form. The hinges were shiny and new, but the rest of the metal hardware was not. An ancient wooden latch attached to a rusty old handle stuck out from the middle of the wood panel.

When she first attempted to tug it open, her fingers fumbled with the old latch, and it stubbornly refused to budge. She was on the verge of panic and cursed her clumsy fingers. Beatrice forced herself to stop for a second, take a deep breath, and gather her self-control. She could do this. She just needed to keep her nerves steady. On the second attempt, she was successful.

The door swung inward and revealed yawning darkness, blanketing the other side. A long tunnel, from what she could tell, leading through the rest of the crumbling castle. The floor was scattered with rubble and decayed mortar. A steady draft wafted through and gently stirred her hair, carrying with it the smell of dank and decay. She shivered with dread. Not of the darkness, exactly. She had never really feared the dark. It was the other things that hid in darkness, which scared her. What if there were rats and spiders and other creepy things lurking there in the shadows?

She looked back at the kitchen, wishing for a candle to light her way, but there were none in sight. Besides, if she was to hide in the depths of the castle, a candle would surely give her hiding place away. She would simply have to face her fears. It was either the scary creatures in the pitch darkness of the decrepit castle ruins or the horrid Mr. Narwhal. No question, really.

Taking a deep breath for courage, she stepped through the doorway and pulled the door shut as quietly as she could. She stood there in the darkness for a few moments, unsure what she should do next. Should she simply stand here in the inky black and hope she wouldn't be found? How likely was it that the men would investigate what was behind that ebony door? And yet, if she moved further into the inky darkness, she could easily lose her way.

Deciding she did not care for the odds of that probability, she cautiously edged her way sideways.  She scuttled along the stone wall, sliding her feet along the floor and keeping one hand in contact with the cold masonry. The last thing she wanted to do was trip over the loose rubble and hurt herself. This way, she could orientate herself and have at least some idea how to find her way back when needed.

Slowly, she slid her feet forward through grit and small stones, praying none of her pursuers would notice her footprints in the dirt. A few more steps, and suddenly she felt the stone under her left hand turn away and realized it formed a corner. Stepping closer to the wall, she reached out, stretching until she brushed against another corner stone. There was an opening here. It had to be a doorway. But was it safe to proceed?

Before she could make up her mind, there came a rattle and scrape of the door opening behind her. She was out of time. The decision was made. With no other options, she quickly stepped through the empty doorway and cowered near the stone wall, watching as lantern light flickered from the entrance, brightening the neglected corridor. Beatrice swallowed back the panic rising in her chest and prayed whoever it was wouldn't find her cowering in the darkness.